by Robin Williamson



His mother told me everything

She had every reason to lie

Down there in the laundromant

Like his life was tumbling dry

Born to be a fighter

With nothing to attack

They put sugar in his coffee

And a t-shirt on his back

And they signed it with a pen

Now they've got him in ambulance

And he'll never fight again



Chorus:

Nothing in his pockets and

Nothing in his hand

That man in the van



Out there in the desert

With the dinosaur blues

With a suitcase full of earvax

and pencils in his shoes

The streets were full of marionettes

And their eyes like blood

It was raining crucifixes

To the tune of Billy Buud

Going to Los Cruces

To breathe that magic air

They've got a few shocks for him

When he gets there



Good morning to you Dr. Varden

Good morning to you if you please

There's many go begging your pardon

While they're dying by degrees

The gates of hell were open

There was no one there inside

They were all out in Los Cruces

Giving their hogs a ride

With clean white jackets

And their eyes like glass

Maybe he'll learn to take it slow

And let it pass